


Choose me

by Idromela



Category: Rick and Morty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-19 23:37:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13134570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idromela/pseuds/Idromela
Summary: President Morty is hunting down all the Ricks, in order to capture “his” Rick C-137. But he doesn’t want to just keep him close: he wants him to abandon his Morty. He wants to be chosen.





	Choose me

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my Native Language so please forgive me for any mistake. Suggestions are well accepted. Love you all.

PROLOGUE

“He’s here.”  
“Send him in.”

Those were desperate times. President Morty started off well, according to the fellow citizens of the Citadel. Most Ricks and Mortys were quite happy with their new leader.

Things began changing slowly, too slowly to be noticed.

Put a frog in hot water, and it’ll jump away. Put the frog in tepid water, make it boil slowly, and it will be cooked to death because it can’t perceive the danger.

Ricks were so confident in their brain and the innocence of Mortys, they couldn’t sense the danger until it was too late. By then, the purge had already begun.

Ricks that were too smart, wealthy, or powerful, would end with a chip in their head, put at the service of President Morty. They would live normally on the outside, maintaining a façade of normality, while being completely enslaved to their President, and would help him take other Ricks.

He had a plan. He didn’t share it with anyone, but he had one. It was not vengeance against the Ricks; he was beyond them. They were only a mean to reach his goal. And he didn’t do it for the other Mortys, like the few Ricks of the Resistance would think: those were means as well, just less useful than Ricks. He didn’t seem to care. He didn’t seem to have attachments. Yet something obsessed him so much he could feel the blood in his veins flow backwards, his heart stopped as well as his breathing, and any rational thought would go missing: his Rick.

President Morty was raised by Rick C-137: the rebel, the one who turned himself to the Galactic Federation to destroy it from the inside, and tried to destroy the Citadel as well. The one who raised him.

President Morty didn’t came from the dimension C-137. He couldn’t remember his dimension. Rick took him and raised him by himself. He wanted to raise the most perfect Morty, the one who could defeat any Rick. And he was succeeding, in a way; but his Grandpa wasn’t there praising him, seeing him making a good job, being proud of him.

He wanted him there with him. Just like the old times. But he wasn’t back, not yet. He didn’t know he was doing what he was raised for; in fact, he didn’t even know his most ambitious project was still alive.

Rick tried to kill his Morty once he realized he went too far and made something too dangerous to be controlled: something so powerful and cold hearted that could erase all of them from the existence. He thought he saved anyone, his family and himself, but he really didn’t. Morty was already too far away for him to reach, too evolved, too perfect to be stopped.

He waited years. He set a trap to him, like hunters did with theirs preys, but he escaped – his Morty, his “real” Morty, helped him escape. He worked so much, and so hard, just to see everything ruined by a bunch of angry Mortys and their little, mediocre leader.

So he had to wait longer. He had to spin a bigger web so he couldn’t leave him again. Morty C-137 was a variable he couldn’t afford to ignore anymore. He would’ve taken care of him as well. But he had to wait. And wait. And still wait. Better safe than sorry.

Rick entered in his office. Not C-137, of course – a Rick, a regular Rick under his control, one that he called because he looked so much like his Rick. Of course, all Ricks are the same. But there are some little difference among them – a mole, a little scar, shorter hair, a strange wrinkle - he couldn’t help but notice. So, he kept really close the Ricks who would resemble his the most, and periodically would call them in his office. Would lock the door and make them approach him. Make them kneel. Make them hug him tight and tell him they loved him. So, so much.

_Are you proud of me?_  
  
_Yes. Yes, Morty. I’m proud of you. So proud._  
  
_Hug me. Tighter, please._  
  
_You’re perfect. You’re the best. You’re my Morty. I’m so proud. Oh, so proud._

 

It was his bigger shame. Strange how shame could bring so much pleasure.  
It was fake, a big fat lie he would tell constantly to himself, but he needed it so much. He needed it to go on with his mission. _Grandpa loves me. He loves me. He will hug me like this. He will tell me these words. His skin will be like this. His voice will be like this. This will be his hug._

He would make those Ricks forget those moments.  
They were under his control, but he couldn’t risk anything anymore.  
Not at that point.  
His Rick was closer and closer every day. He was longing and fearing that reunion so much he would tremble just thinking about it.

He couldn’t lose him again.  
Everything had to be perfect. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is for you, for reading this. Thank you.


End file.
